Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

"Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet."

- Aristotle

Volk

Glaring at the grandfather clock towering behind Igor's desk, I cracked my neck from side to side. The relentless ticking filled the room, a sound that always made me nauseous.

I clenched my fist, struggling to ignore the noise that seemed to taunt me with memories I'd tried to bury for nearly two decades.

Igor stood with his back to me, his attention focused on the large window that framed the garden meticulously designed by his late wife. The garden, a mix of white lilies and dark red roses, was a silent tribute to Victoria Aslanova. I never met her—she passed away shortly after giving birth to their baby, who was born prematurely and didn't survive. The loss was a tragedy that still cast a shadow over this house.

The echoes of her presence were everywhere—in the hallways, the living room, and most prominently in this office. Her photographs, paintings, and sculptures remained exactly as she had left them, preserving a memory that time couldn't erase.

I was fifteen when Igor introduced me to his world—a world starkly different from the one I had known. Before he taught me the harsh realities of his trade, the skills of killing, and the management of his illicit business, I had been just the son of an honest baker. My life had been one of simplicity and normalcy, a stark contrast to the brutal existence Igor was about to immerse me in.

My mom died during childbirth, leaving me in my dad's care. He did his best, often leaving me with my babushka while he worked his bakery job. He'd rise at 4 a.m. to prepare bread and pastries, returning for a quick lunch before working until late afternoon.

His dedication turned the bakery into the best in town, and we always had what we needed. When I was six, I staged a hunger strike to convince him to let me work alongside him. Eventually, he agreed, starting a cherished routine: every day after school, we'd bake bread, talk about our day, and make my favorite cherry piroshki for dessert.

One cold winter night, we came home later than usual due to heavy snow. My dad never owned a car—he disliked them, believing they were for the lazy—so we always walked.

As we entered our apartment, we shook off the snow and laughed when I nearly slipped. I took off my beanie, gloves, and scarf, placing them on the kitchen table, and called for my babushka.

The apartment was silent except for the TV, which she kept on just in case Stalin came back from the dead. As I entered the living room, I found her asleep on the couch. I kissed her cold forehead, but an unsettling feeling washed over me.

Approaching her again, goosebumps spread across my body. My gut told me something was wrong. She looked peaceful, with a small smile on her lips and her hands clasped on her chest. It hit me: she was gone. The scene made me nauseous, and guilt overwhelmed me.

Why did I leave her? Had I hugged her before we left?

Panic set in as I called for my dad, tears streaming down my face. I recited the prayer she taught me years ago, hoping for some comfort.

" Gospodi, prosti nam nashi grekhi i sdelay nas takimi zhe dobrymi i miloserdnymi lyud'mi, kak ty. Lord, forgive us our sins and make us as kind and merciful as you are."

I kissed her cheek and dropped to my knees. My father rushed in, embracing me and doing his best to comfort me despite his own grief.

I was eleven when I first faced death.

Little did I know it would become a recurring part of my life.

"Did you find her?" Igor asked, pulling me out of my thoughts and refocusing my attention on him as the memories began to fade.

Did I find her?

Of course, I fucking found her. And by "her," he meant Helena Melov.

They don't call me Volk for nothing. Hunting is what makes my blood flow. Finding her was the easiest job he ever gave me. For someone on the run, she did a pathetic job of covering her tracks.

In less than two hours, I knew where she lived, worked, and who she was fucking. I had to thank her little maid for that.

Curiosity sparked when Igor first mentioned her. He never told me why he was looking for Helena, and I never asked. To be honest, I didn't care about her at all. My sole concern was getting the job done. End of story.

But let's not pretend curiosity hasn't poked at me a few times.

"Da."

"Otlichnaya rabota. Good job," he said, nodding as he approached me and patted my shoulder. His crooked smile widened, pride glinting in his eyes.

Since that incident years ago, Igor had always been like a father to me. Without him, I might have ended up homeless, in prison, or worse. I owed him everything. He was the only one who believed in me and gave me a purpose.

"Bring Helena and her daughter to me."

He returned to his desk and sank into the armchair and scratched his beard thoughtfully for a moment. "I haven't seen her in quite some time. I think it's time to confront her again."

Confront her again? His tone, laced with menace, and that chilling, Machiavellian smile suggested Helena's fate was already sealed.

I grabbed a cigarette from his desk, lit it with my golden Zippo, and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Sofiya Melov was tall and curvy, with long dark brown hair and sandy-tanned skin. She was pursuing a master's degree in Greek mythology—an area of study as uninspiring as her life seemed to be. Before moving to San Francisco, where her mother worked as an English professor at a private college, Sofiya had been homeschooled for most of her life. Her mother had managed to keep her position by having an affair with the married principal—likely one of his many mistresses.

I wondered how many bastards the principal had scattered around the city, aside from the unattractive Charles Noels at home, who looked like a humanized version of Quasimodo.

In stark contrast to her mother's scandalous affairs, the twenty-four-year-old led an uneventful life. No boyfriend, no real friends, no pets—nothing. If "boring" had a definition, her name would probably be next to it.

Digging into her past, I found that at age ten, shortly after moving to the States, she was diagnosed with pneumonia and was hospitalized at Seattle Children's Hospital for three weeks.

Other than that, her record was spotless. She had never been in trouble or had any incidents since then.

Our little sheep might as well be a nun in Siberia. Despite looking like her mother, she seemed like her complete opposite. The only person she appeared close to was her maid, Dasha Metalova, a woman in her late forties who had moved with them from Russia years ago. The more I learned about this enigmatic Metalova, the more intrigued I was to confront her. How did someone like Dasha manage to climb the social ladder and end up working for Helena?

Wonder filled my mind as the unsettling possibility arose: this little bitch might have lied about her past to her boss. But you know what they say—when a lie takes the elevator, the truth takes the stairs. It may take its sweet time, but it always crushes deceit and brings reality to light.

"Should I kidnap Sofiya for you?" I asked .

After spending the last week stalking her, I had become obsessively intrigued by the girl. Sofiya. I couldn't shake her face from my mind. The more I uncovered about her, the more I felt like a predator closing in on its prey.

I learned that she drank only oat milk, was allergic to cinnamon, loved thrillers, and was a fan of The Real Housewives of Atlanta , where rich housewives fought over dresses, bags, and husbands. I wanted to know even more just to dismantle her innocence, naivety, and purity. I wanted to make her pay for being so blissfully unaware of the harsh realities of life. My isolated and untouched sheep was wandering through life, carefree and oblivious to the impending storm.

" Da , but be careful, Volk. She is mine," Igor said, his gaze unwavering, filled with a possessive determination.

A tense silence lingered as we scrutinized each other. I'd never seen him so invested in someone other than Helena.

Why was this girl so important to him? Was she promised to him?

After a mutual, unspoken agreement, he smirked and cracked his knuckles. " Spasibo for your services as always. You'll leave in the morning; I suggest you get some rest while you can. The next few days are going to be hectic," he winked and pulled out his phone.

" Da. "

"Oh, and you should visit Irina. She misses you and has been begging me to send you her way. Fuck her as hard as you can so she'll finally shut up," he sighed. "God only knows how fucking annoying she can be."

Not fucking Irina. I couldn't stand her.

Sure, she was attractive, but her incessant nagging always grated on my nerves. I thought she had enough work, but apparently, she always had time for more.

I sighed and took another drag from my cigarette.

"You're the only man I know who would turn down a good fuck," Igor scoffed, shaking his head. "Go see her. She might be a pain in the ass, but that girl has the deepest throat I've ever seen."

I chuckled and exited the room.

The corridors were empty and silent, save for the housekeeping lady and the two guards stationed by the door. Igor rarely invited his men into his personal space; our meetings usually took place at city offices. Me and Alexsei were the only ones permitted to stay and live under his roof, bound by his protection and rules.

He taught me everything I know now. Not only was he a father figure to me, but he has also been my mentor and inspiration for greatness.

Igor was the one who introduced me to sex for the first time, which happened shortly after I joined his clan.

He said that a boy became a man only when he fucked his first pussy.

So unexpectedly, the very next day he brought me to one of his brothels in downtown Moscow where two women, twins in their early twenties, waited for me, completely naked.

He told them to take good care of me and teach me how to become a strong man.

They thanked him for such an opportunity.

I remember feeling a bit nervous when they both approached me, crawling on the floor and giggling.

"Welcome, cutie," one of them said seductively.

When they were finally in front of me, or rather at my feet, one of them opened the zipper of my pants and took my erection in her hand, while the other got up, took my hands, and pressed them against her voluptuous chest.

My throat was dry, and sweat trickled down my forehead. I was absorbing every detail—their scent, their body proportions, anything that might help me feel more in control. As I shifted my gaze to the girl in front of me, I stared at her breasts and felt their softness against my rough palms. I wanted to squeeze them to savor their softness, but my shyness held me back.

Suddenly, without any warning, the girl on the floor took my erection in her mouth, licking and sucking while maintaining eye contact and even winking once. The warmth enveloping me felt so intense that I moaned loudly, my eyes rolling back in pleasure. Meanwhile, the other girl pressed her lips to mine, making me grip her chest as she moaned into my mouth. I was so overwhelmed that I didn't know how to respond.

"You can barely fit in my mouth! I can't wait to have you in my pussy," the girl on the floor giggled as she licked my dick from bottom to top.

The sight made me almost faint.

"Me too! Me too!"

I lowered my hands on the woman kissing me and tentatively placed them on her ass. Her encouraging moans gave me courage, and I squeezed her ass firmly, feeling a bit more in control.

I ended up fucking both of them or rather they fucked me a couple of times until exhaustion took over me and I almost fell asleep on the red velvety enormous couch that served as a bed.

A couple of hours later, worn out and somewhat ashamed, I picked up my clothes from the floor, put them back on, and left the room. Igor and his men greeted me as I emerged.

In the center of the room, a grand crystal chandelier, reminiscent of those at the Anichkov Palace, bathed the space in a mystical glow. Below it, a large round wooden table, laden with alcohol, brought the men together, echoing the tale my father told me about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It was a reminder that unity is the best defense against chaos and disorder.

As a sudden silence fell during my walk of shame, Igor stood up and gestured for me to take the seat next to him.

I sat down, looked up, and that's when all the men erupted in laughter at the sight of my face. Some offered me vodka, others patted me on the back, and a few announced proudly and loudly that I was now a grown man.

The combined sound of music and the strong smell of alcohol and sex made me nauseous. As I turned and vomited on the floor, the table trembled while women, wearing only panties, danced and splashed champagne down their chests.

The scene was so obscene, yet I couldn't help but lift my head, wipe my lips, and stare in wonder at the show.

I was seventeen at the time.

That night, I became a member of the strongest, meanest, and richest mafia in all of Russia: the Silas clan.